


The Kind of Man Who Leads

by Ponderosa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Traits, Bathing/Washing, Collars, Dom/sub Undertones, Facial Shaving, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10477473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: What kind of man puts a collar on the Winter Soldier and keeps him on a leash? What kind of man follows him? a.k.a. lots of dog metaphors and animalistic traits, with a heaping side dish of Brock Rumlow getting in way over his head when he lands himself at a HYDRA dinner party.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the HTP kinkmeme in Round 3 for an older prompt which I didn't quite fill to OPs wants, I think, but this also turned out five times longer than expected. Slight revisions here for flow, but mostly I switched to first names for Rumlow due to POV, even if it's a little harder to read with all the B-names! Please let me know if there are any egregious errors or the find/replace screwed anything up.

Brock knew from the minute he set eyes on Pierce that he was the kind of guy who kept dogs. Not yappy apartment-sized ankle-biters that cost just as much as his suits or some five-bedroom, two-point-five kids, suburban squirrel-chaser that was dumb as a post, no, Alexander Pierce was the kind of man who ran hunting dogs.

Every so often he’d bring one into the office: all sleek red fur, alert eyes, and quiet as a ghost. It’d settle on its haunches patiently if Pierce stopped for longer than a moment in one place, muzzle upturned to its master.

“Well-trained bitch you’ve got,” Brock had commented once.

“They have to be. The breed has a habit of playing deaf,” Pierce told him. He’d patted the dog fondly on the head, scratching lightly behind its ears. The tags on its collar jingled softly while its tail swished and thumped against the floor. Pierce half smiled as he declared: “I do enjoy a challenge.”

Later, the first time Brock saw the asset pulled out of cryo and put on a leash, he believed it.

Barnes _hated_ the leash. It’d go on and he’d go nuts, eyes rolling and wild, metal hand gripping that thin strip of leather while the terrified technician on the other end of it shit his pants. Before long the techs started using the leash to haze the lab’s newbies, and Brock found it fucking hilarious every goddamn time, his chest heaving with silent laughter watching egghead after egghead lose it the minute that clip went on the collar. Not that Brock was immune, or too much of an asshole to admit that hell yeah, he’d flinched once or twice seeing Barnes like that, but they’d made the asset do a lot of things he hated and so far the programming held up. A collar around his neck like an animal was child’s play compared to a few days in a cell with a spreader bar and a spider gag.

Maybe that’s why Barnes ultimately took to it, ended up all complacent and docilely kneeling at Pierce’s side, face forward and expressionless while HYDRA’s top muckity-mucks pored over plans and maps and whatever latest droning suggestions Zola had for them.

Brock rolled his neck from side to side until it popped satisfyingly and shifted his weight slightly from heel to toe and back again. He never knew why the fuck they insisted on having STRIKE in the room in addition to the asset. One guard dog should’ve been enough.

“Gentlemen, we need to agree on something,” Pierce urged. He eased away from the conference table and lowered a hand to the top of Barnes’s head, stroking his hair and tucking the dark strands behind Barnes’s ear so he could run his fingers there, along the pale shell of cartilage and then down, towards the heavy muzzle that fit snugly against his jaw. Brock’s pants tightened a bit thinking about that muzzle coming off and the vicious, useless glare Barnes gave anyone who put something in his mouth. Maybe when Pierce was done having his fun--

“I’ve made my case,” Pierce added, when the hushed arguments around the table didn’t reach consensus. His hand now cupped Barnes’s cheek and chin, and Barnes was fucking _leaning_ into the touch, his throat going taut and the bob of his adam’s apple faintly quivering before he swallowed. “Either some of you abstainers and no-votes need to reconsider, or you’re going to have to do some very serious convincing twenty-four hours from now.”

Brock’s least favorite man in the room was Walters, a pig-faced bureaucrat who always smelled faintly of sauerkraut. Walters cleared his throat and Brock could imagine the hot prickle of sweat starting up under the toupee glued to his head, but the man had the balls to be the only opposing voice to speak up. “We’ll need more time,” Walters said.

If the flick of Pierce’s fingers was subtle, its effect was not: Barnes was up off the floor in an instant, muzzle falling away, the edges having left an angry red indentation in his skin. He snarled and snapped, blunt teeth no less menacing, and only Pierce’s fist now holding securely to the taut length of his leash kept him from tearing off Walter’s pig nose and spitting it onto the table.

Brock flexed his fingers where they rested at the low of his back. What must it be like to hold that leash? To hold it and let it release: to feel the leather slide free and watch Barnes tear a man’s throat out with his bare teeth. Christ, but it’d be good.

There was murder in Barnes’s eyes, but he stayed in place at the length Pierce allowed him without straining. That his hands were gloved was the only thing that saved the glossy surface of the table from gouges. The other dissenters politely ignored how Walters kept his head turned away and his eyes pinched shut. There was spittle on his face. The feeble skin of his cheek quivered as he did his best to keep it together.

“Twenty-four hours,” Pierce reminded them. He reeled Barnes back in, and the way Barnes leaned against Pierce as he went back on his knees--

Brock was too well trained to be distracted by the maneuver, but he definitely took note.

“We’ll discuss our options,” Walters said carefully, and the meeting adjourned.

*

Pierce’s suv was the last one idling in the underground, the rest of the council already headed out into the night--a one day reprieve to attend their business meetings, senate hearings, financial reviews, or whatever the fuck they did that was above Brock’s pay grade.

“You gonna want an escort?” Brock asked. His voice echoed through the parking garage.

The driver stood unobtrusively by the open door as Pierce unclipped Barnes’s leash to let him crawl in first and settle on the floor in the middle of the bench seat. He faced the back of the vehicle, his knees spreading wide to fit his bulk into the space. Pierce darted a glance at Brock before he looked back to Barnes who stared back at the both of them, as silent and patient as the driver. Pierce began slowly winding the leash into a loop. “I get the feeling that you do,” Pierce said, and offered the coil of leather to Brock.

It knocked him for a loop. STRIKE in the council chambers was a song and dance, and unless someone needed their nose bloodied it always stopped here. He’d only asked as a courtesy. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Sir. I can’t say it isn’t tempting,” Brock said cautiously. “But I also can’t help but wonder if it’s gonna cost me.”

Pierce gave a short laugh, a soft quick sound accompanied by an equally quick smile, the sort that on the surface played off Brock’s admission as a joke. “You know, that’s one of the things I like about you,” Pierce said, giving Brock’s shoulder a fond squeeze. He held Brock’s gaze, his lips thinning as he turned something over in his head. “One of a few, really: You’re honest about what you want, you enjoy your work...and you know that everything has a price.”

“Sir.” Brock looked between the hand on his shoulder and the deceptive warmth in Pierce’s eyes. They were, he noticed for the first time, almost the same bright blue as Rogers’s.

“Get in and keep the asset occupied while I make a few calls,” Pierce told him, and gave Brock’s shoulder a final pat before withdrawing his hand and gesturing lightly between them. The cold LED lights in the ceiling glinted off his wedding band. “I want you to know, Brock, that I value the kind of loyalty that doesn’t require the occasional few thousand volts to reprogram.”

“Yes, sir.”

A tiny bit of unease rolled around in Brock’s gut as he took the seat behind the driver’s. Being in close confinement with the asset put him at a distinct disadvantage if those last few thousand volts hadn’t been a clean wipe. Barnes didn’t seem to care though that his master wasn’t physically holding the leash; his eyes were flat and calm above the dark line of the muzzle. He _knew_ Pierce wanted him to play nice.

“Atta boy,” Brock said, and sucked it up to show absolutely no hesitation as he reached out to playfully ruffle Barnes’s hair. He’d forgotten how soft it was; or maybe the last few times Barnes had been let out of the ice it’d still been sticky and matted from blood or jizz. It didn’t matter, it felt nice now, and Brock threaded his fingers through to get a nice handful, enough to yank Barnes’s head around if he wanted. The weight of the strands fit comfortably in his fist. “Yeah, that’s a good dog,” he said, loosening his grip to let Barnes’s hair slip free so he could gather up a fistful all over again.

Barnes didn’t react. He didn’t give a fuck what Brock called him. He wasn’t some freak who _liked_ to wear a muzzle and collar and who bought buttplugs with fuzzy tails attached. Then again, maybe he’d react to Pierce calling him a good dog, start pushing his nose into Pierce’s hand to feel his touch like one of Pierce’s real dogs.

At times like this when Pierce took the asset home, what the hell did he do with him, Brock wondered. Barnes might not be into being treated like an animal without a few zaps in the chair, but _Pierce_ clearly was. Did he go all out and do shit like kennel the asset? Make him strip and eat out of a fucking bowl on the floor with his ass up and his balls hanging down begging for a good smack? Did he have Barnes lay on the floor next to his trio of setters--one of these things is not like the other--while he puttered around lighting cigars from a stack of hundreds, or whatever it was that rich assholes did when they weren’t ordering around guys like Brock.

As Brock continued to comb his fingers through Barnes’s hair, he considered whipping it out and taking off the muzzle to dump a load down Barnes’s throat during the ride, but if this really was a new job perk, it would pay to see where it got him. Hell, it might even top getting to be end of the line fucking the sloppy seconds after the rest of the boys pulled a train on Barnes.

Thinking about the wet mess of the asset’s hole too loose to keep the come from dripping right out of it got Brock from fat in his pants to properly hard, and he gave his dick a squeeze. Barnes’s gaze flicked straight to the fat outline of Brock’s cock lined up along his thigh, but his eyes didn’t hold there, they tracked back to Pierce seated opposite.

Pierce didn’t register the look, his attention on his phone calls, and not having Barnes watch took away most of the fun of stroking it. Brock went for Barnes’s tits instead, loosening the velcro of Barnes’s light tac vest and then sliding a hand down the front of his shirt to find his nipple and tease it into a small tight point.

Barnes’s thighs tensed, his body shifting in a way that said he didn’t really like Brock touching him there. Was he remembering the last time they’d had fun together, just the two of them? Or was he getting little confusing sensations of pleasure zipping from his tits to his balls? Brock pulled his hand away to hook his fingers in the front of Barnes’s collar. An experimental tug got Barnes shuffling awkwardly in the small space available between the seats, willing--if not keen--to move where Brock wanted him. Barnes wasn’t a small guy, but he was flexible, and Brock managed to get him to straddle one leg and spread those knees wide enough to get the heat of his crotch planted firmly atop Brock’s boot.

Brock could feel Pierce’s attention shift, and seemingly so could Barnes, who stretched his neck out to let Pierce run a casually possessive hand along the tender underside of his chin. This time he better tolerated Brock’s hand sliding under his vest to pinch his tits, though he whined a bit as the blocks slid by and Brock didn’t let up.

“Gonna end up sore, bitch,” Brock whispered, and flexed his ankle to bring the toe of his boot snug against the taut stretch of Barnes’s pants.

The car slowed as they approached the gates to Pierce’s residence. Pierce tucked his phone away and said, “Leash him and fix his vest before you bring him inside.” As he fixed the lines of his suit, he added, “Your restraint came as a surprise.”

Brock shook out the leash and fingered the cool metal of the clip. Still straddling his boot, Barnes stiffened in anticipation of the reach under his jaw to attach it. Brock let him sit with the suspense. “I figured that if I waited, you’d make it worth my while,” he said, and extracted his leg to hop out of the vehicle. With a sharp whistle, Brock beckoned for Barnes to crawl to the door. A warm satisfaction went through him when Barnes obeyed, and again when he noticed Pierce had paused a few steps away, his hands slung in his trouser pockets to watch Brock clip the leash on and haul Barnes snarling out onto the pavement. A hand between Barnes’s shoulderblades forced him to settle down, everything calming but his eyes, which had gone from disinterested back to seething--just the way Brock preferred.

“Ain’t that right,” Brock said to Barnes, giving the lead a sharp pull to get Barnes following along. Another muffled snarl made it past the heavy muzzle. The soles of Barnes’s boots made a gritty scraping noise as he bear-crawled beside Brock, and though the press of his palms against the pavement was silent, Brock imagined he could hear the whirr of the mechanics hidden under the asset’s sleeve.

Pierce continued up the steps towards the side entrance. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

*

Pierce had brought him home to a dinner party. The handful of guests were already eating. Based on the wine glasses, Brock guessed they were onto the third or fourth course of a series of small, overly complicated dishes.

“Sorry I'm late,” Pierce said, smoothly taking a place at the long dining table. The dark wood was interrupted by a narrow white runner edged with tiny glittering beads. Most of Pierce’s furnishings and decor tended towards mid-century modern, things built to be solid, long-lasting, and timelessly elegant. The runner stood out as something fragile; maybe it’d belonged to his mother, or was his wife’s.

Or maybe Brock was a little on edge walking into the lion’s den and paying attention to useless details. He held Barnes’ leash wrapped tight around his fist, his other hand keeping tension on the lead as Barnes tried to pull as far away from him as possible, straining silently to get close to Pierce. There hadn't been an invite or instructions, so Brock assessed the space and gave Barnes a sharp tug, walking him over to a spot near the corner where they would be visible to most of the guests without being in the way of the help. The crew of three shuttled around wearing crisp white shirts and carefully blank faces.

So this was it: back to standing and watching and being bored out of his fucking skull. Barnes had taken to kneeling next to him, but it wasn't the languid stretch that had lined him up along Pierce's thigh in the ops room or the forced coziness in the car. Barnes was stuck waiting, same as him.

“Will there be entertainment this evening?” asked the woman seated across from Pierce. She had a quick smile and a nice rack for a broad pushing sixty. She wore a wedding ring, but she wasn't the wife. Brock had only met Pierce’s wife once, and like a lot of politicians in this town, the old man’s second marriage was to a woman half his age, if that.

Pierce’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He lowered the bite uneaten back to his plate, and Brock glanced down when he felt Barnes twitch. Barnes was fixated on Pierce, and Brock imagined that underneath the muzzle his pretty mouth was open very slightly, lips parted and his tongue poised just behind the white edge of his teeth. 

Probably he was salivating. They would’ve fueled him up when they thawed him, but the way his metabolism ran he was probably damn hungry by now.

“It feels like it’s been years since you've brought _two_ handsome young things around,” the woman cooed, her gaze locked on Brock.

Brock stared back, his ears pricked waiting for Pierce’s response, as attentive as Barnes.

“It has, hasn't it,” Pierce said. He sliced a small piece of pork belly and speared it with his fork. Instead of eating it, he transferred it to his fingertips, and there was no question as to what came next.

Barnes didn't strain at the lead this time but he pitched forward slightly, his weight prepped on his toes. Brock crouched beside him to undo the muzzle, and he ran a knuckle down Barnes’s cheek as he reached for the clip at his collar. “Hope you know what else you're gonna be swallowing tonight,” he said, too low for anyone else to hear.

The flick of Barnes’s gaze wasn't quite sharp enough to make him recoil, but Brock quickly stood to get his face out of range of a bite just in case. Freed, Barnes moved to Pierce’s chair, positioning himself to kneel low on his heels, his thighs wide and his mouth parted. Brock wondered again if Pierce ever took him outside with his real dogs, let him loose with explosive energy to run down some terrified rabbit--or other, bigger prey.

It was an idle thought, kicked around backstage because most of his attention along with several of the guests’ was stuck on the way Barnes took the morsel of food from Pierce’s fingers, his teeth bared and bite remarkably careful as if a part of Barnes wasn't sure the offer was genuine.

But the look on his face…. There was gratitude there, and hell, it could be just that simple.

Maybe every time they took him out he knew even with a mindwipe that on top of any mission he was gonna be humiliated or beaten or fucked until he was so sloppy he’d be shitting come for a month. Maybe he played Pierce’s game just for the occasional treat and kind word.

Brock wasn't sure what got him harder: the idea that they'd broken Barnes’s ruthless soviet programming down to craving doggie biscuits and a pat on the head, or the bloodthirsty look on the face of the woman who was clearly hoping for more of a show.

The woman stretched a hand across the table to lay her fingers at Pierce's cuff. “Your man is terribly good looking. You know I'm of the opinion that you always have the best dinner parties, Alex.”

Two of the other guests murmured their agreement. Brock let the corners of his mouth turn up, a silent acknowledgment that he’d be game if they were looking for someone to warm Barnes up.

“Perhaps when we move into the library,” Pierce assented. He cut another morsel of meat and fed it to Barnes, fingers held waiting for Barnes to chew slowly and swallow and return to lick every last trace of grease from Pierce's hand. Pierce wiped the wet of saliva off on Barnes’s cheek, briskly at first and then slower, the motion turned into a caress that slipped down to trace the rounded edge of the heavy leather collar.

Barnes seemed to crave it, muscles cording in his neck as he strained for more of Pierce's touch. The needy tension slowly bled out of him as the meal progressed and Pierce continued to alternate between feeding him morsels and stroking his face, neck, and hair. By the time small scoops of sorbet garnished with a sugary lattice were being placed on the table, Barnes was back to languidly leaning his head against Pierce's thigh.

Pierce took a bite for himself, then judging it too cold or messy to want to feed Barnes by hand, Pierce gestured for the server to put the dish on the floor.

“Go on,” Pierce said, giving Barnes a nudge with his knee and nodding towards the small bowl. “It's all yours.”

Brock scraped his teeth over his lip as Barnes peeled away from Pierce's side and crawled to the treat. There was no question about how he would be allowed to eat it, and smooth as a stripper he slid down, chest hovering an inch above the floor and his ass high. This, Brock thought, this was good. 

The whole damn room watched the fucking Winter Soldier eat the dessert one lick at a time. When Barnes finished and raised his head, his lips were stained bright red from the plum or raspberry or whatever the hell flavor it was. He looked an awful lot like he’d been used all night, and it made Brock _ache_.

“Good,” Pierce said, calling his pet back to him with a sharp snap of his fingers.

As the group of guests retired to the library down the hall, Brock began counting down the minutes until the real fun started. He was the last to leave the dining room, trailing behind where Barnes followed obediently beside Pierce, his ass swaying from side to side as he crawled hands and feet across the immaculate floor.

In the expansive library, Pierce poured the drinks himself, exchanging a few more intimate words of conversation as he handed each glass over.

Brock could feel the room’s eyes on him when Pierce offered him a glass. The asset was probably a familiar toy to this lot--maybe going on decades, who knew--while he was the fresh meat.

“I should warn you that the lady has powerful friends and particular tastes,” Pierce said quietly.

Brock took the glass. “Is that so?”

“I didn’t intend for you to become a spectacle this evening.”

Brock downed his drink in one go and boldly handed the empty glass back to Pierce. He stripped off his tac vest, draping it along with his assault rifle on an unoccupied chair. Grinning, he rolled his shoulders back and flicked his gaze towards the lady that'd been begging for a show. “Well, I’m ready when you are, sir,” he told Pierce.

Pierce regarded him for a moment, long enough that Brock wondered if he'd misstepped. The stringing tension broke when Pierce sipped at his own drink and set both glasses down on a low table as he took a seat.

“Come,” he commanded Barnes. “Up.”

Barnes shuffled forward, rising up on his knees, hands planting on the broad leather-upholstered arms of Pierce's chair. He opened his mouth without prompting, jaw hinged wide as Pierce thrust his fingers in.

This wasn't the dinner time show, it wasn't a teasing slide to enjoy the kittenish licks of Barnes’s tongue. Pierce was efficient and thorough, his fingers probing Barnes teeth and gums. He gave similar treatment to Barnes’s face and hair, thumbs running over Barnes’s temples, his palms smoothing over Barnes’s skull before he ran his hands through the length of Barnes’s hair, fingertips massaging against scalp as he ruthlessly tore through any tangles.

“Alex, please. I doubt the boy has ticks.”

Pierce ignored the woman and finished his examination. He cupped Barnes’s jaw firmly enough to indent the flesh of his cheeks, and held his gaze for an excruciatingly long time.

“C’mon,” Brock breathed, his skin crawling with the prickling heat of anticipation. 

“What does the lady want you to do?” Pierce asked Barnes, and turned Barnes’s head to look at her. His attention snapped back to Pierce the moment he was allowed.

The answer when it came was nearly a growl: “To fuck.”

“That’s right.” Pierce stroked Barnes’s hair and sat back, restoring his drink to his hand as Barnes remained poised in front of him.

“Let's go,” Brock said, advancing a step, intending to grab Barnes by the back of his vest and haul him into the middle of the room.

But Barnes moved too quickly, snaking out of range and then striking just as fast. The padding built into Brock’s pants was the only thing that kept his knees from cracking against the hardwood.

Metal clamped down to the back of his neck, and fear flooded through him. The ease with which the asset could snap his neck-- Brock froze, his cheek grinding into the floor and his hands straining for purchase. “What the fuck,” he said, as Barnes hovered over him.

“Mount,” Pierce ordered.


	2. Chapter 2

“I did warn you,” Pierce said, after Brock had given in. This wasn't, after all, a fight he had any chance of winning.

“Yes, sir, you did,” he replied, voice straining against the ache and the humiliation. His skin was crawling, muscles tensing as if to try and hold back the shifting of his bones, the very core of him that wanted to both turn inside out and collapse in on itself.

“What's the fun in watching a broken toy be played with?” said the woman who was responsible for this. Brock seethed at being called a toy, his vision darkening at the edges, eaten away by rage. While he agreed with the sentiment on the surface, he didn't believe that there weren't aspects of the asset left to break. He shook away the shadows that crept in on him in order to memorize the bitch’s face as she watched him get fucked, and added her to a mental hit list that maybe, one day if he was lucky, he'd start crossing off.

Barnes wasn't cruel; if anything he was thorough. He'd slicked Brock up adequately--the drag of those metal fingers over his hole something Brock wasn't going to forget anytime soon, and he slowed here and there to spit and keep the friction down. It made it worse somehow, the pain coming primarily from Brock’s own inability to ease up and let go. Pure hurt he could handle, taking the hits was part of his fucking job, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been held down and fucked raw before. He’d gone through initiation. He’d survived that shit. This was different--

Having to hold still while a bunch of rich old assholes watched him get _bred_ stirred up an ugly mess of shame that he hadn't had to endure since he was fourteen, before he’d finally started to get some height on him and learned to throw a proper punch.

“The truth is, you're too valuable for this treatment.”

“Is that--” Brock gasped, a hard snap of Barnes’s hips forcing him forward. He pressed his hands hard into the floor as hurt echoed up his spine. He suffered through the intermittent spikes and throbs of pain, hating it even more as they edged close to something that almost felt good, like the ache of a loose tooth after a solid hit to the jaw. “Am I supposed to feel better about that?”

“Small comforts,” Pierce said. He wasn't even fucking watching. He was reading. The page of his book rasped beneath his fingers as he turned it.

Was this-- Brock shuddered as Barnes’s weight pressed warm along his back, sickeningly intimate as Barnes’s breath huffed against his ear. Was this a lesson after all? Proof of Pierce's disapproval of how liberally the STRIKE team used the asset as their own private come dumpster? He grit his teeth as Barnes's hair shivered against his cheek and for a brief moment he struggled, trying uselessly to escape the grip of warm metal clamped across his chest. The plates in Barnes’s arms shifted as his hold tightened.

“You only need to wait a little longer. Can't you tell he's almost done with you?” the woman said. Her arch smile carved its way into Brock's flesh.

To be a weapon in the hands of Hydra, a thing aimed and unleashed, was worlds away from being used like this. The awful churning in his guts screamed hypocrite at him. The ugly flush heating his chest and face howled for revenge.

When Barnes was done with him, pulling out and away and looking to Pierce for direction, Brock wasted no time staggering to his feet. He hauled his shorts and pants up, finding his fingers thick and clumsy as he tried to do up his belt. “Fuck,” he spat, as he forced the buckle into place. He couldn't look at the woman now, or any of the others, though he could feel them watching him still. Probably they were reliving his humiliation in their heads, remembering how he'd looked with his pants tangled around his ankles and that fucking beast on top of him rutting away.

He had to redo his belt, tighten it to the proper notches, and he cursed as he stood up straight and tall. He crossed the room in a few steps and was about to grab his gun and vest when training took over and he realized how very keenly the asset was watching him. He'd become a threat, and a sudden flood of adrenaline steadied his hands and dulled the sharp stinging pain that promised him taking a shit was gonna hurt for a full week. Slowly and deliberately, he took a step away from his weapon.

“Angry?” asked one of the other guests, an older man with eyes an even brighter blue than Pierce's.

“Fucking right.”

“Anger narrows the focus.”

“And order follows pain,” Brock said, but he continued his retreat until the asset relaxed. He crossed his arms and stared at a point somewhere beyond the library wall, settling into a waiting stance. “I don't need the rookie speech.”

“But perhaps you needed this,” the woman said. She sized him up as she rose from her seat, moving to a card table that had a fresh deck waiting alongside tidy stacks of chips. The others, Pierce included, freshened their drinks and went to join her. The cards fluttered between her hands, a blur of red and white. “Let your assumptions drive you into so simple a trap again and you'll know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you will never be the kind of man who leads.”

“Never figured myself for a command position,” Brock lied.

“Lack of ambition is the mark of a lesser man,” said blue-eyes.

Barnes was back to cozying up against Pierce’s thigh, his gaze heavy-lidded as Pierce stroked the nape of his neck.

The woman--Brock still didn't even know her fucking name--shuffled the deck a few more times, then set it tidily in front of an open space beside her. This too, could be a trap. Taking the seat might be like putting a collar around his own neck, pledging himself to their whims.

The reality of it though was that Hydra already owned him. He'd pledged himself to this regime. He was already dealt in.

“I go into the red, you foot the bill,” he told Pierce. “I’m not walking out of here owing anyone.”

Pierce regarded him with the same steady look that had shaken his nerves earlier, but this time Brock choked down the uncertainty and his own gaze remained unwavering. Pierce slid a stack of chips towards him.

“It’s only fair when the evening has already cost you,” Pierce said. He stroked Barnes’s cheek with his knuckles, and peeked at the hand he was dealt.

Brock lifted the corner of his own cards and immediately got the feeling that Pierce could see straight through his poker face, a feeling only strengthened by Pierce’s quiet laugh as he threw a few chips into the pot.

“Contessa,” Pierce said, “you may regret seating a second rival at the table.”

“Alliances are made to be broken Alex, you know that better most,” she replied airily. “What I’m more interested in is what you’re going to offer your young man if he cleans the lot of us out.”

*

Blue-eyes won the night, but Brock had held his own, enough that he ended nicely in the green. It could be that the Contessa had thrown a few hands intentionally. She fixed him with a hard stare at the end of the night and said to him, “Looks like I owe you,” before turning to Pierce to add, “I like this one.”

He bristled at the implications but kept his trap shut. Wisely so, as that led to Pierce seeing his guests to the door and an invitation upstairs when only Brock remained. Brock hesitated, moreso this time than before. Once burned, twice shy.

“You lied about command positions,” Pierce said casually, a hand resting on the banister. A sharp snap of his fingers and Barnes came to heel. Pierce pointed up the stairs and Barnes slowly crawled up them. Pierce watched the ascent, but Brock could feel the prickle in the air warning him that most of Pierce's attention wasn't on Barnes at all. “You’ve led a good number of incursions.”

“Unit command is different than sitting at the table in the war room. I'd rather be filing reports than reading them.”

Pierce waited until Barnes had cleared the top stair before he turned to Brock. “Steve Rogers thinks very highly of you and of your qualities as a leader. Nick Fury is inclined to agree.”

An awful swelling pride twisted in his chest, a knot of tentacles that squirmed and sought to fill the spaces between his organs. It was an uncomfortable feeling in the wake of being so thoroughly humiliated. Impossible to say if it was a biscuit meant to smooth things over. “And you, sir? What's your assessment?”

“You're smart, you're vicious, and if anyone other than the asset has a chance to take down Steve Rogers when the time comes, it's you.” Pierce lay a hand on the railing and nodded towards where Barnes had disappeared. “Last chance. If you want to understand why he obeys, this is it.”

Sometimes it felt like Pierce was a fucking mind reader. Or a puppet master, Brock thought, as he allowed himself to be pulled up the steps by invisible strings.

“Did you know that every single time we've had to force a major wipe, I've had to start from scratch,” Pierce said, leading the way into a bathroom that was larger than Brock's bedroom. Barnes perched waiting on the edge of a freestanding stone tub that looked like it was hollowed out of a split boulder.

The room was mostly white, tiled in smooth gleaming squares that didn't have the pretentiousness or hassle of marble but equalled the elegance. It fit with the rest of Pierce's home, everything clearly showing its price tag but none of the screaming overcompensation of the nouveau riche or the dusty pomp of old money. As a teenager, before enlisting, Brock had worked a construction crew, and refitting houses nudged up against golf courses had taught him a lot about the well-to-do. Alexander Pierce's home said the man paid well for what would last the longest and serve him the best without unreasonable upkeep.

Brock regarded the jarring black and silver of the asset disrupting the clean lines of the room and reconsidered Barnes’s upkeep. “Why bother?” he asked. “Does it get easier every time?”

“Not at all,” Pierce admitted. He grabbed a folded towel off a cedar chest and tossed it to the floor. It slid to a stop in front of Barnes who twitched, muscles prepped to move; it wasn't until Pierce nodded that he slid off his perch to kneel on the towel.

“So why?”

“I learn something new every single time,” Pierce said, rolling his sleeve halfway to his elbow before starting the tap. “Such as how a hot bath is as welcome a reward as an iced dessert.”

Barnes stripped when ordered, leaving a neatly folded pile of clothes and gear plus an array of knives piled next to his boots. He returned to his towel and waited attentively as Pierce produced a shaving kit. Methodically, Pierce set out a mug, an old safety razor with ivory inlaid in its wooden handle, and a fresh blade. 

Just seeing the small naked blade made Brock want to pick it up and stripe red cuts into Barnes’s skin. If they were shallow enough you could watch the wounds stitch themselves right up and then wipe away the blood, the skin beneath as good as new. Go deep enough though, and, well, there were a lot of marks and scars on the assets body beyond the ugly knots near his shoulder. Most of them healed too, just a helluva lot slower.

Pierce motioned for Brock to take care of the shaving cream while he dismantled the razor to screw the blade into place. “Just add a bit of water to the soap and whisk it around,” he said, offering the instruction whether or not it was needed. “It'll foam right up.”

The lather built into creamy peaks, a subtle, sweet smell rising up out of the cup. The squat brush handle matched the safety razor, and Brock found the weight of it in his hand oddly pleasant. It reminded him a bit of a billiard ball, lighter by far, but solid and purposeful for its size. He ran his thumb over the checkered bits of ivory as Pierce dumped a dozen rolled-up washcloths out of a shallow metal bowl and then dipped the bowl into the steaming tub to fill it.

Barnes had raised his arms up ready to receive the bowl and hold it. How many times had they done this that he was so well trained?

“What, no hot towel?” Brock said. 

Pierce looped a dry white towel around his own neck. He slid a matching cedar stool out from under the cabinet and set it directly in front of Barnes. He took a seat and stared straight into Barnes’s eyes. Barnes stared right back, calm in an unsettling way, he wasn’t begging to be touched now, but he was waiting with purpose, with intent. He’d wear the same look sighting down a scope with a finger on the trigger, Brock was sure of it.

It creeped him right the fuck out.

“Some rewards come with diligent service,” Pierce said, the composure of his voice only amplifying the jangle of nerves along Brock’s spine. “Other rewards are reserved for more unique circumstances.”

“And which is this?”

“For you? Or for him?” Pierce’s glancing gaze didn’t beg a response. He held out a hand for the cup that Brock had worked to the brim with lather, and said, “Shut off the tap, would you?” 

Little licks of steam rose into the air as the surface of the water settled to stillness. The sudden quiet magnified each rasping scrape of the razor across Barnes's cheek and throat. It hardly seemed like Barnes took a breath or swallowed, his adam’s apple quivering only once after the razor passed over it and up to the point of his chin.

Brock wished he were bored. Watching another man get a shave should be a dull if not tedious ritual, something that didn’t affect him in the slightest, but the sound and smell of it got to him somehow. He used an electric at home more times than not, a couple quick buzzing passes when the shadow on his cheeks started threatening to turn into a beard. He only ever really used a proper razor when he had a really hot date lined up and wanted to be baby soft in preparation for a thick pair of thighs around his head.

And yet-- Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from each swift pass of the razor, couldn’t help the stir in his blood each time Pierce cleaned it with a brisk swish in the bowl Barnes held. He noticed only after a while that at some point Barnes’s eyes had closed and that he himself was holding his chin up, echoing Barnes’s posture.

He shifted uncomfortably, unease swelling beneath his ribs again. He should’ve left. He could’ve been home by now, in the shower with a cold beer and this bizarre day swirling down the drain. The razor swept neatly over the hinge of Barnes’s jaw, Pierce’s knuckles trailing behind to test the closeness of the shave.

A few more passes and Pierce was finished. He took the towel in hand and gently wiped away the thin stripes of white left on Barnes’s face. Barnes looked younger. If he didn’t have the body of a brawler, he should be pouting and selling cologne in issues of _Maxim_.

Pierce dried his hands and pivoted to face Brock. He gestured at the space in front of him. “You?” he said, and at the sound of his voice, Barnes’s eyes slid open again. The illusion of youth vanished.

A small, sick part of Brock wanted to say yes. The awful, weak, trembling part that was at the heart of his squirming unease. No one would know if he took up the offer and let Pierce’s sure hands take his face. The man already had all the power in the world over him, saw him fucked face down by his two-legged pet, so what would it change?

Brock swallowed around the hard knot settled in his throat. His fingers had turned cold and brittle. “No thanks,” he said, sneering.

“Few things nicer than a proper shave,” Pierce replied conversationally. He stood and Barnes followed suit, dumping the bowl of clouded water into the sink and then stepping wordlessly into the bath. One ritual down, more to go.

“I’ll clean ‘em,” Brock offered, gesturing at the brush and razor. He wasn’t so much anxious to help as to get things moving.

Pierce didn’t object, and let Brock clean and rinse and set things to dry as he attended to the asset with as much care as he’d shown in shaving him. He stretched Barnes's metal arm out, supporting it at the elbow as he wiped down the plates with a damp cloth, methodically cleaning the seams and joints.

This was maybe worse, Brock thought, glancing over as he finished putting the kit to rights. This felt like watching something he wasn't supposed to, uncomfortably intimate to the point of obscenity. He lingered near the sink and watched stubbornly anyway, catching it this time when Barnes’s eyes went to slits and then closed entirely, his mouth parting slightly as Pierce bathed him, the washcloth periodically disappearing under the water to run along his legs and groin.

“You like doing this?” he asked Pierce.

“I started in the field, you know,” Pierce said. He was washing Barnes’s hair now and didn’t look up from the task. “Nick and I came up together, though I was already running a desk by the time he joined SHIELD. Do you know what it is that makes a field agent successful? It’s not good papers or window dressing, and it’s certainly not money, though that of course comes in handy.”

As Pierce rinsed Barnes’s hair with a bowlful of fresh water, Brock made a vague sound, not sure where this was going.

“Success as an agent comes from being satisfied with the results of your work.” Pierce paused as he had Barnes rise and step from of the bath. He began to towel him off with the same thorough care, one limb and then the next, periodically catching the water that dripped from Barnes’s long hair. “Now, the wind can change at any time when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, doing something you definitely shouldn’t be doing, and you might get burned, or you might have to abandon an asset you’ve been spoonfeeding for weeks, months, _years_ even. Where’s the satisfaction in that, you wonder? When all your hard work turns into nothing or bureaucrats back home shit on the intelligence you’ve gone through great lengths for…?

“Well it’s managed chaos, isn’t it,” Pierce continued. He wrapped Barnes in a fresh, fleecy towel. “You can lose a thousand battles and still win the war. So do I enjoy scrubbing down a fucking attack dog that can’t string two sentences together when he isn’t delivering a mission report? Not particularly, but he looks damn good after a wash, doesn’t he.”

With that, Pierce released Barnes, who still looked oddly sated. Brock wondered what Barnes would’ve been like if he'd been a fly on the wall. Would there be even less tension in him? Would he have responded to Pierce even more acutely? Was a shave and a hot bath really all it took to have Barnes willing to wear a collar around his neck and play fetch?

Barnes didn’t sink back down to the floor like Brock expected. Clean and groomed he was free to be a man, and his bare feet were silent on the tile as he walked out the door.

*

Brock wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow and exit the room before Pierce. There was no protocol for this and nothing in Pierce’s body language to guide him. He wished now that he hadn’t separated the razor from its handle and could have offered to do Pierce a turn. Not that there was much of a shadow on him even after a full day; only the faintest prickle of white-blond showed near Pierce’s jaw, the skin there less marked by what age and years of sun had put on the rest of his face.

The water in the bath was still steaming, and Brock nodded at it. “You mind if I--?”

That smile ghosted across Pierce’s face again. “Be my guest,” he said, plucking one of the stray washcloths off the counter. He passed the roll to Brock as he exited and politely closed the door behind him.

Brock stripped down. He left his things in a haphazard pile, a crumpled, chaotic mess scattered on the floor near Barnes’s neurotic little stack. Rather than get into the tub and soak, he gave himself a wash like this was the field: dipping the cloth into the water and scrubbing ruthlessly at his skin until it turned pink not from heat but from raw abuse. Grimacing, he swiped between his legs at the last. Dripping wet, the water that trickled down the insides of his thighs made his muscles seize. He left the washcloth to sink into the bathwater and snatched a towel to hastily dry off.

He could hear them talking--Pierce anyway, a murmur too soft to pick words out of. 

He’d stood hallway duty plenty of times before, never for Pierce, but keeping watch while someone got their jollies off was inevitable when babysitting diplomats and businessmen. Whether the entertainment was escorts or flings from a hotel bar or some other politician’s wife, there was always an element of sameness from the other side of the door. 

Brock retrieved his pants and hauled them on over still-damp skin, then tugged on his tee. Instead of putting his socks back on he balled them up and stuffed them into his boots. Briefly he entertained the idea of whether or not he could get it up and jerk a quick one into one of Barnes’s socks, but there was no guarantee he’d be able to right now--or that Barnes wasn’t going to get fresh laundry in the morning and be put away by Pierce all prim and proper.

Scooping up his boots and the rest of his gear, Brock killed the lights and left the master bath.

It didn’t surprise him in the least to find Pierce naked in bed, his back propped against pillows while the asset sprawled across his lap. He was toying with Barnes’s drying hair with one hand and Barnes’s mouth with the other.

Brock dumped his things against the wall and knew that there could’ve been a very different end to this night. If he hadn’t read the situation so damn wrong earlier, his ass wouldn’t be smarting in his pants and he very well might have petitioned Pierce to let him put that dog in its place. Barnes was no stranger to getting spitroasted, and Brock was _good_ at making sure the guy on the other end felt each thrust.

But he couldn’t forget Barnes’s weight on him, the brutal hold of his arm and his relentless rhythm. It hadn’t been a fair fight. Hell, could he say he even fought back at all? Brock found himself avoiding eye contact and holding up a piece of wall. Pierce mercifully didn’t question the decision, and the few feet between them stretched into miles. As Brock drifted further from the action, he catalogued the way Barnes responded to Pierce's touch: Pierce was training the asset to do things that he found pleasurable and at the same time clearly working out what it is that Barnes reacted to. From that vast distance, Brock added to the list in his head: sugary desserts, fresh shave, hot bath, and slow kisses to the shoulder.

He watched everything through that strangely faraway lens up until the moment when Barnes was flat on his back, his real arm thrown over his eyes and his cock standing flush and hard. The whimpering sob that cracked past his lips hauled Brock back into his body, a rush of something that felt more like fear than a sexual thrill clutched at Brock's insides.

He hadn't ever heard the asset make a sound like that. Not even when bleeding and dripping from both ends or slumped in a corner soaked in piss. But Pierce had taken him there somehow, through whispered words too quiet for Brock to hear and gentle touches that brushed from throat to thigh.

Suddenly, viciously, Brock’s lust came roaring back. He wanted to climb into that bed and fuck the asset sloppy, to pry Barnes's knees apart and force his fingers against where Pierce had certainly loosened him up nicely. He bit the inside of his cheek, knowing that his moment had passed and he wasn't meant to have that; he had to settle for watching Pierce roll Barnes onto his side--too gently, far too gently--and spoon against him.

It took a while before Brock realized Pierce wasn't even fucking Barnes, not really, Pierce was doing him schoolboy style, dick pushing between pressed thighs.

And Barnes-- Barnes was into it, his cock so hard it was nearly purple. 

Rarely did the asset get a boner without being forced there, tugged and groped until his body grudgingly responded. Hell, that'd been true earlier tonight, when Brock had been trapped under the clamp of metal and had to endure the awful press of a spongy dick rubbed up against him until Barnes had gotten stiff enough to push his way in.

And now there he was, cock straining and drooling, teeth on his lip like he was trying to keep quiet.

Maybe it was muscle memory meets buried memories. It wouldn't surprise Brock if this was how Barnes had passed time on the eastern front, Rogers all cozy beside him, a little private time cause they were such _good friends_ weren't they.

That viciousness surged up again, swelling up in his throat, slick and oily. He studied the micro expressions playing across Barnes's face, the tug of his brows and the quiver of his lip. And then, later, when Barnes’s cock was spasming and spitting a heavy load over Pierce's sheets, the confusion that stared out from blurred eyes.

The look faded as minutes passed, turned into boredom until Pierce rolled away satiated himself and ordered Barnes to clean up. Finally, this was something that Brock would’ve bet on happening tonight: Barnes lapping up what he could, tongue leaving dark stains on the million thread count and then scooping up the mess that had been left dribbling down his thighs in wet fingerfuls that he sucked clean and swallowed with an impressive thoroughness.

There wasn’t a drop left when he was done.

“Do you understand it now?” Pierce asked, returning with a damp towel. He wiped clean his hands and his dick and then threw it towards the asset without bothering to look at him. “Why he obeys?”

Brock stood up straighter. He squared his shoulders, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. “Obeying was...never in question.”

“Indeed it wasn’t.” Pierce was clearly pleased that Brock had arrived at the right answer. “Why then do you think he obeys me in the _manner_ that he does?”

Barnes had curled up at the foot of the bed, practically tucked into a ball with his cheek tucked into the crook of his arm. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the way Rogers curled up when he managed to shrink down to hide behind that fucking shield of his. The look in Barnes’s eye was back to calculating, observant. Less like a hound and more like a cat.

Brock chose his phrasing carefully, picking his way through words like a minefield. “You give him something he wants. What he needs, maybe, even if he doesn’t always like it.”

“Smart _and_ vicious,” Pierce said, echoing his praise from what felt like days rather than hours ago. He sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked Barnes’s from shoulder to hip. “And do you know then, why you accepted the invitation to my home and have chosen to stay?”

Brock swallowed thickly. He knew the answer, even if it pained him to say it. He felt lightheaded to the point that he now _needed_ the wall to keep on his feet. “I’m no better than Barnes,” he said, and clenched his teeth so hard they hurt.

“Good guess, but not entirely true.” Pierce continued to pet Barnes as he spoke, soft touches that matched his tone. “He is a thing that’s been starved, and is useless to me without his programming. You’re a man of free will who is simply...hungry.”

Brock almost asked what it was that Pierce believed he was hungry for. He tried, but his voice dried up before it left his throat. It didn’t matter, he realized. If he couldn’t see the forest through the trees, Pierce would do it for him. A gritty laugh tore out his throat as the strength finally left him and he sunk to the floor. He sat there, staring up at Pierce, feeling every hurt in his body clawing down to settle in his bones.

Pierce turned down the bed and regarded him. “Remain as my guest as long as you care to. Join me for breakfast if you’d like. You’ll be surprised to learn that the asset is capable of fixing up a decent plate of toast and eggs. Later in the day, I’d like you to accompany me to secure the remainder of those votes.”

Brock didn’t realy want to stay where he was, but he’d turned to stone, a weight too heavy to move. “Yes sir,” he managed.

How fucking _hungry_ \--

The sheets whispered as Pierce slid between them. At the foot of the bed, he heard Barnes shift.

“Go fetch some bedding,” Pierce ordered.

Bare feet landed in front of Brock. A moment later, the asset’s metal hand offered him a checkered woolen blanket and a foam pillow.

When he didn’t take them, they were placed carefully before him.

“Good boy,” Pierce said, as Barnes crawled back onto the bed. 

Brock shoved at the pile of his gear beside him, bootlaces left trailing across the thick pile of the carpet. He gathered up his knees and draped his elbows over them. The door was still open to the hallway, dark and yawning, nothing at all left between him and the freedom beyond. 

Eventually he lowered himself to the floor, pretending that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the praise had been meant for the asset alone. He rolled onto his back, and crammed the pillow under his neck. Patterns crept into the shadows that marched across the ceiling as he stared into nothingness.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the faint gleam of metal at Barnes’s side and the subtler gleam of the ring at his throat. Brock still had a chance. Hydra owned him, and Pierce owned him, but he could leave right now, before he just let the old man go digging around to figure out what made him tick. He could walk the fuck out of here and pretend this whole night didn’t happen.

“Good boy,” he mouthed, testing the shape of the words in the darkness. The feel of Rogers’s short hair in his fist sprang into his imagination. Just as soft as Barnes’s he imaged, only tougher to keep hold on, short as it was. Brock bared his teeth, lips peeling away from his gums. Pierce must know he thought about it every single fucking time he had to look Cap in the insufferable All-American eyes. Was that the ultimate command position? A reward reserved for unique circumstance?

 _Best not to assume,_ the Contessa’s voice whispered a warning.

Brock turned the prospect around in his mind for a long while, chewing lightly on the edges of the idea. If Pierce valued his loyalty, what would it matter if he gave up a bit more of his dignity to prove it. You need to play the game to win, he reasoned. He might not want to hand out marching orders on the regular, but if Pierce let him run down Rogers when the time came and that’s what it took to be at the other end of _that_ leash….

The idea kept his blood running hot until he caught a more subtle gleam from the foot of the bed: Barnes was awake and had that dead-eye stare trained back on him.

Under the weight of that gaze, he tempered his resolve. He shook out the blanket and made himself more comfortable; crashing on a carpeted floor sure as hell beat laying a bag out on the cold dirt. His skin prickled as Barnes tracked his every move, and the whole of his flesh went tight as he screwed shut his eyes and turned his back on the threat.

He’d played right into this, but he could still muster ambition where the asset couldn’t, and he could harness the anger that in the asset simmered uselessly behind programming. He might be on the same lead, but he didn’t have to fear a wipe, only a bullet.

Holding that cold comfort close, he chased sleep and tried to shake the feeling of metal on his throat, clamped there like teeth to hold him down.


End file.
